


Imperfections

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Series: Trinkets [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: But not dark, F/M, Fluff, Scars, it's sort of, rough, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wouldn't let her touch the cuts of moonlight on his body, the little white slivers that recorded his injuries in his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfections

Tiny thin lines. Tiny thin lines decorated him like medals, streamline and beautiful in the starlight. He didn't stir when she traced them; starting with the white slits on his shoulders, the red scratches on his throat, the stitches on his arms. His fingers were scored with cuts of surgical precision, accidents from medicine and culinary preparation.

His nose was notched, she now noticed. He did well to cover it up.  _So European_ , she thought, tender fingers through loose hair. His master bath was full of cosmetics and creams; enough to rival her own collection.

He didn't like when she touched his scars. He made it explicitly clear when she tried a few nights later, her fingers grazing the score marks on his shoulders.

"Alana." His tone was stern, taut, mirroring his eyes.

She did it again in defiance and was rewarded by being pinned to the mattress, a harsh grip on her waist, the weight of his body on her back. Teeth cut into her neck and his voice sliced her ears with a growl.

She wore scratch marks down her skin for a week.

She wouldn't let him into bed, gathering the covers up in her arms with a pout, freezing to stone until he kissed her an apology, easing the fabric from her clenched fists. She sat still as he cataloged her body, drawing swirls over all her nicks and imperfections. He cradled her in his arms, tucking her head under his chin as he moved from her breasts to her stomach and hips.

His drawing was interrupted whenever she squirmed, uncomfortable and conscious of certain spots. If he nuzzled her neck enough, she'd tell him the stories. The ragged line over her left hip was from a bike crash when she was nine, the small streaks on her side were from her mother's cat, the neat scar by her navel was from a surgery when she was a baby. She wouldn't speak of the long slash on the inside of her right thigh.

He continued this routine for a fortnight, focusing on a different part of her body every evening until she was comfortable with all his small touches. Only once she let him run his fingertips across the long, silver cut of moon on her thigh did he allow her to kiss his own imperfections.


End file.
